Grit and Gold
by HungryNerdWithRabies
Summary: A memory from Aang's past has finally made her way back into the present. Bitter, broken, and confused, will she be able to sort out herself out and find the solace she needs? OC-centric, M for violence and later chapters. Really sorry, on HIATUS.
1. The Kill

**This is my first story on FanFiction, but not the first thing I have ever written. It is OC centric, so if you do not enjoy reading a story like that, please do not continue. Construction criticism will be respected and reviewed, but flames will be ignored due to the fact that they are both a waste of time and yours. I am trying to improve my writing skills on this site, not be berated by someone who doesn't really give a crap.**

**Warning: Death and slightly suggestive themes if you squint.**

**Disclaimer: I, in no way shape or form, own Avatar: The Last Airbender, it's characters, or it's storyline. I do own my OC, though.**

**Hope you enjoy, and hope this note wasn't terribly long.**

Grit and Gold

Chapter One

I bend over my victim, analyzing him quickly. I hold him down with one knee pressed against his heaving chest and one hand clamped around his neck, just tight enough to make him squirm without smothering him. His heart beats fiercely, pounding like a pleading gong against my knee. The street where we are positioned is draped in tight darkness, yet I can see the dark pupils of his eyes dilating into pools of reddish-brown, the whites shining overbright in the night.

I can smell his fear.

He shivers as I run my hands lightly from his neck down his expensively clothed chest and back up. I can feel the blood shooting through his veins at a rapid, frantic speed, to keep up with that pounding heart of his.

Keeping my one hand on the smooth, ivory skin of his neck, I reach into my belt and slide out a small, short, deadly dagger. The sharp, lethal blade gleams under the light of the moon as I hold it up for inspection. The man whimpers, a whiny, throaty sound.

Wordlessly, I bring the dagger down slowly to his neck, so the double-edged blade traces his thick, bulging jugular vein.

It's funny, isn't it, how some people's veins just _bulge_ when they are afraid? To me, those people are the ones who deserve death, and they know it. Their veins pop out, just asking—_please, please, stab me, here I am, do it!_

"No!" he gasps, under the combined pressure of my knee, hand, blade, and task. "Please. . . . I have money if you want money, I swear, there are a few gold pieces in my pocket right now, you can check, and I can get you more—"

"Shut it," I hiss, slamming my hand down on his neck quickly, with quick release. His head cracks against the pavement sickeningly, and those overbright eyes dim with a dazedness that fills me with sudden, unexplainable fury. I stop tracing and press the tip of the blade to his neck, so it just slightly pierces him. As I position my dagger precisely, and rearrange my position of control atop his shaking, sobbing, pitiful body, I think of my instructions.

This man is Huo Takang, an important government official of a rank I can't place at the moment. He cheated the capitol of the Fire Nation out of almost three hundred thousand gold pieces, money that was supposed to be used to build public schools for children who could not afford private schooling. He had done it secretly, and only few knew about this corruption, one of them being the man who assigned me this mission. If Takang were killed, his money will be left to the government, since he had no family to leave anything to, and the money will most likely be shared among the other greedy, blood-sucking officials, my assigner being one of them.

Still, Takang is going to be easier than most. He had no family, and no one to miss him once he was gone. I don't have to feel as much pity; I don't have to think about his mother weeping over his empty body, his young children wondering where their papa has gone, or even his wife struggling to maintain a new life on her own.

I tighten my hand on the handle of my dagger, and, envisioning that savory, magnificent reward I would soon receive clearly in my mind, I thrust.

The movement is quick and messy, because the client made it clear he wanted a bloody death. I'm not sure why; maybe he just takes joy in seeing blood splattered along a public street, blood running in rivers along the sides of roads for days after, blood dripping in thin trails down sewage drains.

The blade goes into his soft flesh easily, breaking the skin effortlessly. His jugular bursts in a spout of warm, crimson blood spilling out over my hand, staining it a dull pink. I push the dagger in until the blade is all the way inside his neck, and I twist viciously, savagely.

He only writhes below me for a second or two, already gone. He convulses as blood seeps from his neck like an overflowing dam, and then he lies still, blood still pouring from his mouth, ears, and nose.

I yank my dagger from his neck and slide off of him, for it is no longer any use to hold him down. He is dead.

I kneel on the side that isn't gushing sticky rivers of blood, and trace my fingers down his still warm face, my lips parted with curiosity. I feel his energy ebbing slowly away, disappearing with his life, mind, and soul.

Soon, slowly, he has leaked out, and becomes an empty shell, a nothing, nothing that can haunt me.

The last thing I do before leaving the scene as quietly as I had come is swipe my dagger across a metal band I wear on my upper arm, too heavy-duty to be called a bracelet. The scraping, slightly screechy sound of metal scraping metal pierces my ears as a thin gash is added to the others there.

**:-:-:-:-:**

Slinking into the shadows, I leave Takang's body in the alley; it will be discovered in the morning. My route is easy enough, but I took the long way back, which is a series of backroads and alleyways; I am too noticeable in my dirty, ratty clothes, not to mention my blood-stained hands. My heart is fluttering in my chest from a sweeping, stomach-turning rush I always experience after disposing of a victim.

The problematic thing is, though, that I only feel the rush. I am incapable of guilt.

With every step I take, I feel heavier and heavier; and when I was only a short street away, it is as though I am carrying a sack of enormous, dense rocks over my back. My palms are already sweaty, and in my mind I was keeping up my hopeless chant of: _No, no, no, I don't want to, just leave, run, you can make it, just don't go back. . . ._

It was no use to run from them. I have no way to leave, in the first place. They will find me if I go, and I will be punished so severely my mind hurts to think about the prospect. It is better to appease them, give in to what they wanted me to do, and then, eventually, be awarded with that sweet freedom I have been dreaming of for months. Years, really.

I reach the path leading to the prison and dart up it, every cell in my body shrieking _"No!"_ I run because it's easier that way; maybe if I go fast enough, I'll barrel right through that place and the people and the problems and get away from it all.

But I'm not fast enough. I enter the prison silently, my bare, calloused feet patting softly on the dirt floor. There are guards standing by the doors, but they don't acknowledge me at all. They are the elite guards, the ones who aren't allowed to speak or laugh or joke. They can only stand there, straight-backed and solemn, as though they are leading a funeral procession. The most emotion I had seen on an elite guard's face was a twitch of annoyance in his cheek, but that was only because a moth-fly had landed on his lunch.

However, if anyone were to suddenly run from the prison with every intention of escape, these guards would leap into action. They are all firebenders, and they are all perfectly capable of striking you down without mercy. And they know of the conspiracy I am involved in, so they know whether I have an assignment or not.

Behind me, the two guards close the doors, slide out a wall of bars on tracks, and slam one more solid steel door.

I walk through the halls of the prison, knowing them too well for my liking. I cringe, as I do every time, when I pass the groups cells, where twenty or so prisoners are crammed into one dirty room. The cell has a solid, clay wall; the only air holes are the bars, which are located in a thin strip at the top of the wall separating the cell from the hall. Those tall enough to reach shove their hands through it, beckoning, pleading, scrabbling in poor, out-of-their-mind attempts to escape. I hear the screams and wails from the other side and flinch, knowing what could be going on in there from personal experience.

I open the door at the end of the hall a crack and slip inside, my insides tingling numbly with apprehension. I step forward into the dimly lit room. Cigar smoke fills my nose immediately.

"You're back," grunts the voice of my greatest enemy, a man named Tsuong. If he has a last name, I know it not. He's very secretive, because if any _real_ authorities had a clue what he was up to in his office, they'd arrest him without a bat of their eyes. That's how this place works.

Tsuong is tall and burly, but not as muscular as he looks. He has a potbelly from many years of sitting on his backside and doing as he pleases, which includes drinking many forms of alcoholic beverages. A large cigar is always sticking out of his mouth, emitting foul-smelling smoke and waggling when he speaks. Tsuong's eyes are grotesque; they are small and piggy with a nasty glint at times, but the worse thing is the irises. Tainted the color crimson, swirling between the white and black, they remind me of blood.

Tsuong puffs on his cigar as I come forward, and I hold my breath as a thick cloud of smoke drifts lazily towards me. Wrinkling my nose the slightest bit, I take a seat on a rickety, foldout chair in front of Tsuong's desk. This is his office.

Office isn't exactly the appropriate term, though; it's more like a closet that used to be full of misfit items like extra toilet paper and rusty weapons, but is now cleared out and filled with moldy old furniture. Tsuong sits at a desk so small and unstable that it's a wonder his mug of coffee and flagon of beer are being supported by it; there is one other chair in the room next to the one I am seated in, but that one is so moth-eaten I am afraid to sit in it, for it could collapse at any moment.

"How'd it go?" Tsuong asks. You'll notice, he doesn't ask how _I'm_ doing. Of course not.

"Fine," I say stiffly, holding out my hands, palms up, so he can see the blood stained on my skin. "As always."

Tsuong grunted again. "Go wash up. Get rid of the evidence, or you'll be caught—red handed." He chuckles at his joke, even though I remain silent and still.

"How much were you paid?" I ask.

He sits up, leaning towards me, his mean eyes narrowing. "Is that your concern, girly?" he asks me, his cigar waggling like a disapproving mother waving her finger at her child.

"Yes," I say, trying for the rare spurt of bravery that grabs me now and then, "it is. I'd like to know how much you've made so far. You said you would reward me when you reached a certain amount—"

Tsuong interrupts me by standing, sauntering up behind my chair, and placing his hands on my bony shoulders. I sit still, tense, and stoic, even though my dearest wish at the moment is to reach up and twist my knife into his awful eyes.

"You'll be freed when I see fit, girl," he says, tracing one of his greasy fingers along my exposed collarbone. He presses his fingers down painfully hard on a spot just above my collarbone, where my neck meets my torso. The spot is a yellowish bruise from many incidents worse than this.

I refuse to wince. I refuse to even blink.

He chuckles softly, and, to my extreme relief, takes his hands off me. I sit still, staring straight ahead of me, before he says, "You may go. I am not in need of your services at the moment."

I stand, clenching my hands into fists to keep myself from lunging and strangling him. I leave the room quickly, close the door behind me, and stand by it silently for a few moments, my hand still resting on the metal knob.

These thoughts go through my mind often. Why not kill Tsuong? I am more than capable, stocked with weapons and skills that would strike fear into the heart of the most intrepid man in the world. I have my sick fantasies of torturing him . . . putting him through what I was put through . . . but they are visions that cannot escape my mind. Thoughts that make my heart pound—with fear or anger, I am not sure—because no living being, even one as twisted and malicious as Tsuong, should have to undergo what I have suffered. And I tell myself, the worst of my lies, that what I do to the victims I am assigned doesn't match up to that, that they're not exactly _living_ after I'm through, and that I make is as clean-cut and painless as possible. But even I, who have little or no morals left, know this isn't true.

I dart down the halls and through cell yards, down tightly spiraling staircases and up long corridors, until I end up in the smallest, most unoccupied courtyard of the prison. It was so uncared for and forgotten the grass is brown and dry; as I walk it crackles under my footsteps, tickling the soles of my feet.

At the far end of this courtyard there is a wash station, as there is in every courtyard. Yes, we have the topmost quality here in prison, and are given the luxury of washing with brown water that smells like elephant-donkey droppings. But at least it replaces the red stain on my hands with brown.

Wiping my stained hands on my dirty pants, I walk straight back into my cell in hell with my head held high.

**Ah! First chapter of first story; I'm so nervous about posting it. I****t's not as long as I had wanted, but I hope it wasn't a complete waste of your time. Please review with constructive criticism and please tell me if you spotted any spelling or grammar errors. I proofread it myself but I'd like a beta, so if anyone wants to please message me! I'm, again, new to this website, so please be patient when I have no clue how anything works.**

**I know some of you may be thinking my character is a Mary Sue (I don't know if it comes across that way, if so could you please tell me and what made you think that?) but I'm going to definitely make sure she isn't. And she doesn't have yet a name for a reason, you'll find it out soon.**

**I apologize for long-winded author's notes; I just wanted to make sure I got everything across right away.**

**:-:-HungryNerdWithRabies-:-:**


	2. Pit

**Thank you so much to EliteFanFic, who gave me an awesome review last chapter. Hope you keep reading! **

**I was going to post on Wednesday, but I went to see the Big Four (!) at Yankee Stadium in the Bronx. Best. Night. Of. My. Friggin'. Life.**

**Disclaimer: ****I, in no way shape or form, own Avatar: The Last Airbender, it's characters, or it's storyline. I do own my OC, though.**

**Enjoy!**

Grit and Gold

Chapter Two

Two days after I had killed Huo Takang, I sat in Tsuong's office, awaiting my newest assignment. It must be a rare, terrifying sort of client, because when I come in, Tsuong is wringing his hands very nervously.

"Don't sit!" he barks, and I stop short on my way to my usual chair. "No time . . . we've gotta be there now." He glares angrily at me, those bloody eyes forcing goosebumps to erupt on my skin. "Where have you been? I sent a guard to find you twenty minutes ago."

His voice is low and dangerous.

I look down at my bare feet, involuntarily crunching my toes into the dirt self-consciously. His tone is scaring me—as everything about him does. But it isn't _him_ I fear; no, Tsuong is not a scary man. It's what he does that horrifies me . . . what he is capable of . . . what he has done to me, when I was powerless and weak.

"_Well?"_ he hisses, coming around his desk and grabbing me by the hair. He yanks my head back, stretching my neck uncomfortably.

"I—I—" I whisper, desperately attempting to stop my hands from shaking uncontrollably. "I guess . . . it just took the guard a while to find me . . . I was out in the farthest courtyard—"

I break off as he tugs violently at my hair, making a gasp slip from lips as my neck snaps down and back up. My hands immediately go for my neck to cradle it, comfort the new bruises.

Tsuong lashes his foot out, so that my legs are swept out from under me, and I topple to the floor. I know better than to stand before being ordered to, so I lay there facedown on the dirt floor, breathing getting shallower. Out of nowhere comes his heavy, booted foot, swinging at my delicate side forcefully. I jerk, sucking in my stomach as pain explodes along my ribcage. Thankfully, there is no sickening crack, so I have a sliver of hope that none of my ribs have broken.

Tsuong reaches down and drags me to my feet by the collar of my tattered prison uniform. Grabbing both my forearms, he slams me against the wall of his office, fingernails digging into my flesh.

"We're going to meet a client," Tsuong hisses in a deadly whisper, squeezing my forearms in a bruising way, "and you'd better be on your best behavior—anything less, and you'll be going straight to the meatpackers, to be slaughtered like a pig—if you screw this up—" He breaks off, unable to speak in his nervous rage. With a noise of disgust, annoyance, worry, or all three, he snatches my wrist and pulls me out of the room.

Down the halls we go, my heart thudding painfully in my chest. My side is burning with pain, my forearms are stinging, and the skin on my wrist is twisting as he yanks me unceremoniously out of the prison, pushes me into a small waiting carriage, climbs in after me, and signals for the driver to trot his bird-horses on immediately.

I try to sit as far away from Tsuong as I can without him noticing. I sit uncomfortably in the far corner of the little carriage, my face pressing against the cushioned wall, my hair falling over to hide it from the burning eyes of the monster.

I can tell you right away, this isn't new at all. Tsuong had beaten me worse many times before, and before him, I was a punching bag to many cruel people. But I suppose even I must submit to some form of what I commit myself.

After I few minutes, I raise my head just slightly enough to see out the tiny window of the carriage. We are just going over a little sort of drawbridge . . . straight into the Fire Lord's palace courtyard.

I squeak in the back of my throat and sit bolt upright. "No," I say wildly. "What are . . . what's . . . _here_?"

That is the most intelligent statement I can manage.

"Shut up," says Tsuong rudely, licking his thin, white lips.

I shrink back into my seat, horrible apprehension towering over me as the carriage jerks to a stop in front of the huge doors. Two stoic guards greet Tsuong and me as we get out of the carriage.

The Fire Lord's palace is cruelly beautiful and intimidatingly colossal. If you want to see the tallest tower from the ground in front of it, you would have to bend your head so far back you would break your neck. The walls are thick, reddish brown stone, and golden plates and plaques decorate everything. Expensive portraits and tapestries hang on every wall; every floor is covered by a woolly, handmade rug. I am almost so lost in admiring the way the astonishingly soft rug feels on my bare feet, I forget to be on my guard.

We are led into a dark, ominous room. The only source of light is the long, horizontal pit full of blazing, twisting flames. I suck in a breath, and turn as if I plan on running, but the very solid body of a guard meets me. He turns me around and pushes me forward, so I stumble, landing on my hands and knees. The floor is obsidian, cold and black. I am immediately ordered to my feet; I raise my face to the looming flames.

The silhouette of the Fire Lord is visible in the light of the curling, red and orange flames. He is nothing but a shadow, a sinister, creepy shadow on a raised throne.

Tsuong practically grovels as we approach him . . . as close as we can get without burning our skin off. We sit on our knees uncomfortably before him.

"Your Highness," he says unctuously, "I am honored to be in your presence. It is truly—"

"Silence," says Fire Lord Ozai coldly. His voice is harsh and unforgiving. "You've brought your assassin?"

My blood ran cold and shivering. The Fire Lord was our client? I had to kill for the Fire Lord? And an _assassin_? Is this what I have become, lost, destroyed, grunging about, throwing away lives for selfish reasons?

The monks would be repulsed by me.

I bow my head, no longer able to look at the sinister silhouette any longer.

Tsuong says, "Yes, Fire Lord Ozai, of course. She is right here." He gestures to me, kneeling beside him. I do not look up, thankful that my hair obscures my view.

"Her name?" Fire Lord Ozai asks.

"She has none that I know of, Fire Lord," says Tsuong. "But I assure you, she can get the job done . . . cheaply, as well."

"Yes, I don't doubt that once that fool Takang's body was discovered"—he _knew_ about this? I thought, shocked—"I knew she was the one for the job. . . . But I'm not striving for a death this time, Tsuong. Can she capture?"

"Of course!" says Tsuong greasily. He is disgustingly obsequious, excessively servile. "She's brilliant at what she does. No job is too much."

"I'm glad to hear you say that," says the Fire Lord, and I detect a smirk in his tone of voice. "I wish for her to capture the Avatar."

Without thinking, I topple forward silently, flinging out my hands to keep my face from smacking to floor. My mind is racing, my heart pounding—_no, not this, I can't_—

Tsuong glances at me out of the corner of his red eyes, shining rubies in the light of the fire, and he says, "O-of course she's capable of that, My Lord."

"Good," says Fire Lord Ozai silkily. "I'll put no time limit of the Avatar's capture, as he is quite slippery. I am putting every man I have on the job, but still . . . I need someone with more . . . experience. More stealth."

"Stealthiest person I've ever met, My Lord."

"I'm sure," says Fire Lord Ozai. "But there is one small issue I am concerned about. . . . You told me she was a prisoner?"

"Yes, Fire Lord."

"Then we'll need a way to keep her from escaping," says Fire Lord Ozai thoughtfully. "Too much freedom in one quick dose could enhance her fantasies of getting away, and not completing this task."

Tsuong fidgets. "I'm sure she will complete it, My Lord," he says quickly, but Fire Lord Ozai holds up a hand to silence him, a dark, spidery, long-fingered hand.

"I will assign one of my guards to travel with her, watch her day and night. One of the ones craving experience. I'm sure many will jump at the opportunity to serve their great nation. If you'll just wait outside, I will have someone fetch one."

Without waiting for an answer of agreement from Tsuong, the Fire Lord waves his spidery hand, and the two unwaveringly stoic guards escort us out of the throne room. Regular candlelight assaults my eyes as we leave, and I close them tightly.

"This is great," says Tsuong, rubbing his hands together. "Did you hear that, girl? You're gonna take down the Avatar . . . oh, I can't wait to get my hands on that sack of gold pieces!"

I do not acknowledge him and slide down a wall, so I am kneeling at the base of it. I put my head in my hands.

Tsuong does not seem to notice my distress, or he just does not care. He is excitedly listing what he will do with his heaping load of coins once I have captured the Avatar: first, buy a beach house on Ember Island, second, buy a luxury ship, and third, buy one hooker, one whore, and one slut.

Another of the Fire Lord's staff comes out of the throne room, closing the door behind him so we can't see what is going on inside. This one is tall and brazen-faced, and his uniform suggests he is a high-ranking officer.

"The Fire Lord has found a guard for the girl," he says to Tsuong, disregarding me entirely. "You may leave."

"Right. But I wondering if I could get some of my money in advance—"

"You have been dismissed," the man says, unfazed. "The Fire Lord has ordered you from his palace. He no longer needs you here."

There are shuffling footsteps and Tsuong scurries off. I actually feel alone.

The man grasps my arm, yanking me to my feet. I throw him off, snarling; I'm too much of a touch-me-not to ignore such invasion. The brazen-faced man only smirks, and leads me back into the dark, dim throne room.

There is a figure already bowing before the Fire Lord, on his hands and knees, forehead touching the ground. He raises his head to look at the dark silhouette.

The man pushed me forward, and I drop to my knees so that the Fire Lord won't blow my head off out of disrespect. Brazen-face leaves the room quickly.

"Rise," he says imperiously.

The bowing man and I get to our feet. I do not look at him, keeping my eyes trained cautiously on Fire Lord Ozai.

"I sense great power in you, young one," he says to me, raising a hand and pointing a long finger. Young one. I almost have the audacity to roll my eyes. If he only knew. "The task set for you is challenging and will require strength and diligence. I expect only the best from you, considering the description I have been offered on you.

"However," his voice turns nastier, colder, "if I get wind in any way that you might _not_ be attempting this task, that you might _not_ be the most attentive you can be, that you're trying to escape—well, I think you can guess what I am capable of doing to you." He chuckles softly.

I tighten my shoulders.

"Both of you may go. A ship will be waiting in the yard for you. The crew and supplies are at your absolute command. I wish you luck."

Two more guards escorted us from the palace. Once out in the bright light of midday, I turn to look at the man who will supposedly be guarding me.

He is younger than I expected, maybe about seventeen years, at most. He has golden eyes that shine in the sunlight, and dark, dark hair buzzed down to a short fuzz. He smiled slightly, uncertainly at me. He wears the uniform of the lowest ranking officer in the Fire Lord's staff.

Oh, the poor, poor boy. He doesn't know what he's getting himself into.

"Um . . . hi," he says indecisively, as if he is scared to speak with me. "My name's Lian. And you?"

"I have no name," I say stiffly, and I set off at a quick pace toward the docks.

"Oh . . . hey . . . wait up!" I hear his heavy footsteps coming after me. How horribly unlucky this kid is to have gotten himself into such a position.

"How can you not have a name?" he asks incredulously.

"I just don't," I say, my tone punctuated quite clearly to show my annoyance. I am not in the mood for small talk. Doesn't he understand the position I'm in? We're _both_ in? Doesn't he get how tremendously awful this will be for me, the decisions I'll have to make, the decisions _he'll_ have to make?

Of course he doesn't, I realize suddenly. He's barely out of school, not even in college, and has about as much understanding of the world as a clam-tortoise. He hasn't got a clue, let alone understanding of me and my life.

I slow down a bit, and turn to look at his innocent, clean-shaven face. My blackened heart softens just enough for me to say, "I won't explain myself to you, just to get that straight. We're going to do this, and we're not going to hate each other, but we're not going to be friendly either, got it? I don't do well with friends."

"Why not?" Lian asks. "I like friends. They make stuff easier, you know?"

"No, I don't know," I say, though I know perfectly well what me means. "I'm giving you a warning, okay? This is me being nice. Don't mess with me."

I turn on my heel and stride down the dock. There is only one warship moored in the marina, so I am assuming that one is for us. It is small and easy to maneuver, made of tough steel. There is a crew of about five men standing on the deck, waiting. Sun glints along the hide of the steel monster, a style of ship I have come to despise in my years. A pipe atop the watchtower that I have no name for is puffing out swirling clouds of iron-gray smoke.

Once Lian and I reach the crew, who are all waiting with a look of servility on their toughened, sun-baked faces, I draw a blank. I am not a commander, a leader of any kind. I don't know how to speak to sailors, and I certainly don't know how to sail a ship that doesn't have wooden oars.

It look at Lian to see him smirking at me. Only human, still however slightly, pink creeps up my cheeks.

"You can do . . . this," I say, not knowing the precise word for it. "I need to focus on tracking and tactics."

"Sure," he says, drawing out the word to comical length.

My brain pulses in my head angrily. "Don't cross me," I hiss at him. Then I look around at the crew and bark, "Well? Get to it, then!"

They jump and scatter off to whatever positions they hold on the ship. I turn to Lian, hands on my hips, glaring fiercely.

"See? I can do just fine," I say to him. He's still got that stupid smirk on his face, that smirk that's making my blood boil.

"I'll handle the crew," he says, crossing his arms. "I suggest you go to your chambers and 'get to it' with your 'tracking and tactics,' No-Name."

Filled to the brim with unnecessary fury, I descend the staircase in the middle of the deck, stomping all the way, until I realize I don't know which rooms are supposed to be mine. I am just about to experimentally open a door when the cook (I think he is the cook, since he is wearing an apron stained with food) pops his head out of a door which must lead to the kitchen, because of the scent wafting from it. "Miss," he says tentatively, "your rooms are last on the hall, to the left. Lian's are to the right."

I nod curtly, disgruntled. "Thank you."

He nods back, looking at my face scrutinizingly, and I take a good look right back at him. He's a pudgy old man, no beard on his double-chinned face and no hair on his shining bald scalp. I look past him into the kitchen, and my stomach growls ravenously. Whatever he is cooking up is better than prison food.

Perhaps the cook has heard my stomach growl, or perhaps he is just good at reading expressions, because he says, "Would you like something to eat, Miss? I'm making soup."

Trying not to show how eager I am, I follow him back into the kitchen. It is warmer in here, and steam is rising from a stove on the far wall. A huge pot is sitting on the burner, from which the delicious smell is coming. Before all the kitchen appliances is a short, little table with seven mismatched chairs crammed around it.

The cook goes to his soup and I follow, interested. The liquid in the pot is thick and glugging about, bubbling and boiling. Some leaves are floating around on top. I take a sniff, and recognize them as basil. I know most plants, what is poisonous and not poisonous, what tastes good and what tastes awful.

"You like the basil?" says the cook, smiling at me. "It's my favorite. Adds so much flavor to the soup."

"What kind of soup is it?" I ask.

The cook shrugs. "I don't know. I mixed it up today. I don't name dishes. They shouldn't be labeled as this or that, or that or this."

I smirk slightly. "I am not labeled. I have no name. What's yours?"

"I am like you," says the cook. "I'm Cook."

"Cook? Just Cook?"

He nods. "Just Cook." Cook leans over his soup, and inhales deeply. He smiles at me. "Doesn't it smell delightful? The simmer is perfect . . . I bring it to boil myself." Cook held his hand toward the stove burner, shot a quick burst of fire out of the palm of his hand. The soup bubbled and glugged more violently.

I didn't realize I had stepped back a few paces until Cook smiled kindly at me.

"Afraid of fire?" he asks casually, wiping his hands on a rag by the stovetop.

"No," I say, eyes narrowing fiercely. "I fear nothing."

"Whatever floats your boat, Miss," says Cook, stirring his soup. He looks up at me with pale eyes; then he chuckles.

Insulted, I say, "What are you laughing about?"

"You are an odd one, you are," Cook says, shaking his head good-naturedly. "You are scared . . . you are even afraid to admit your fear."

I open my mouth to object, but Cook continues talking.

"I know not of what scares you, and I won't be the one to ask," he says, taste-testing his soup, contemplating, and adding a bit more spice. "But it doesn't make you weak for you to admit what you suffer. It only makes you stronger. Strength, that is what you're aiming for, yes?"

"I already have it," I say in a voice tight as a taut cord. "I'll be checking my rooms now."

"Dinner will be ready soon," he calls after me light-heartedly, and I slam the door after I leave.

"Whoa, No-Name," a teasing voice greets me. "No need to get angry."

Already at the end of my short temper, I strike out without looking, and nail Lian in the chest. He slams back into the wall of the narrow hall, and I snake my hand up to his neck, watching his midnight pupils dilate in surprise. I bring one finger up and poke him hard in the chest, leaning in close.

"_You,"_ I hiss, "better stay out my way. I have a mission to finish. I have many things at stake. And I don't need some kid screwing with me. So _lay off_!"

He holds up his hands in surrender, and forces a short laugh. "It was nothing, No-Name," he says quickly. "I was just going to my room, and I saw you. It's nothing."

"You're absolutely right," I snarl, desperately wishing I were about a foot taller, so I could look him in the face without standing on my tiptoes. "It's _nothing_."

I release him, turned away, march straight into my new chambers, and shut the door sharply behind me.

**Please review with constructive criticism and if you noticed any spelling/grammar/punctuation errors. I'm feeling it's kind of slow, what does anyone else think? I can't wait for the next few chapters; I already have them written and I think they're much more interesting.**

**:-:-HungryNerdWithRabies-:-:**


	3. Red Candles

**My thanks to Lorna Roxen and EliteFanfic!**

**Disclaimer: ****I, in no way shape or form, own Avatar: The Last Airbender, it's characters, or it's storyline. I do own my OC, though.**

Grit and Gold

Chapter Three

My rooms are simple enough. The problem is the red.

Red, red, red, red, everywhere. The walls are steel, of course, but a large tapestry that hangs on the far wall is red, embroidered with the Fire Nation insignia. The lampshades are red, so when I lit a candle with flint stone I found in the cabinet (cherry, the reddest of woods) it casts an eerie, mahogany glow about the entire room. The comforter on my vast, comfortable-looking bed is reddish purple, and a quilt at the end of the bed is knitted with reds, oranges, and yellows. I even peek under my bedding . . . red sheets.

I have the luxury of a small, adjoining bathroom, filled with toiletries almost too glamorous for a person who has spent many years of life in a dirt hole. I take advantage of this to fill the bath with heated water, and even add a few dollops of some kind of flowery-scented bubblebath. I shed my clothes eagerly and slip into the water. It feels so nice I close my eyes, throwing my head back to soak my long, matted hair.

The water feels creamy and luscious over my toughened, calloused skin. I haven't bathed in what feels like years. I lather myself vigorously with a cloth and soap that smells like violets that have just bloomed. I raise the soap to wash my hair, and then I spot shampoo on the side of the tub, and next to it, a bottle of conditioner. I haven't used either product for years and years.

I spoil my hair with ample amounts of each, and, after soaking for a few more minutes of bliss, I step out of the tub. I dry myself with a soft, fluffy white towel and squeeze the water out of my hair before wrapping it up in the towel.

I feel so much different than I did when I stepped onto this ship. I feel fresh, new . . . unused, _clean_. My skin isn't sticky or grimy to the touch, and I can comb my fingers through my hair without getting them stuck in tangles. I feel as if I'm glowing. I feel like I did when I was younger, taking things like a simple bath for granted.

My prison clothes lie discarded on the floor. They reek of human waste, burning meat, stale sweat, and blood. I pick them up and, without a second, sentimental thought, chuck them out of the porthole above the bed.

I peer into the closet across from the vast bed of watery red sheets. Inside are clothes, actual clothes, clothes that regular people wear. But still, red, red, everywhere. I pick out a simple robe that's more purple than red, and slip the thin, soft fabric over my shoulders. It falls about my body in billows of silk, settling at a point where it drags on the floor. I guess it was made for someone taller than me, but I'm not complaining.

I take my hair of the towel and let gravity take it down, where it sits at my hips, damp and heavy on my neck. My hair has overgrown to epic proportions; it hangs like a curtain over half my face, covering my forehead and one of my eyes. This is lucky. There are things on my face I don't want seen.

As I walk to the bathroom to hang up my towel, I catch sight of someone moving in the glass of my porthole. I freeze.

It's me. But it doesn't look like me. The creature reflected so dimly in the glass doesn't look like I do on the inside, it just looks . . . plain. Just regular, normal. Nothing special or strange, except for the odd hollowness in my cheeks and eyes. Plain hair, plain skin, plain face. Not the grimy, disgusting monster I really am.

My skin has a yellowish tinge. My hair is straggly, damaged, and overgrown. But my eyes . . . eyes that hold horror and pain but mostly something sicker than both look bright. Open. The gray hasn't been so gray (rather than dim and glassy) in a long time.

I am suddenly revolted with myself, and I tear my eyes away from the glass. I don't deserve this kind of thing, this feeling of being normal and clean, these thoughts of being regular. I'm sick and I'm twisted, and I deserve nothing more than what I had been living.

I stride to my nighttable, where I left the only thing worth keeping, the only thing I took off and set aside before my bath. My thick, metal, upper arm bracelet. Pitted and scratched, I run my fingers across its rich, meaningful texture. My fist closes around it, and I snap it onto my arm underneath the flowing sleeve of my robe.

It is what I am. Who I am. What I have done.

A sudden, echoing knock interrupts my reverie, and I look up sharply.

"Hey, No-Name, it's dinner." The voice belongs to my "partner."

I open the door, hostility already on my face.

"Dinner time," he repeats, as if I hadn't heard him perfectly well the first time.

"I know," I snap. "Move, so I can leave." He is leaning against my doorframe, his tall, gangly person blocking my exit.

"Oh . . . sorry," he says, moving out of my way, and gesturing for me to pass with a flourish of his large hands.

I stalk past him quickly, sure he's making a mockery of me.

The rest of the crew is already in the kitchen, assembled around the tiny little table; the table doesn't even have enough room to hold all of their plates, so they have them balanced on their laps. They all smile slightly when I enter, but the smiles slide off their faces like they've melted as I glower dangerously at them.

I take the empty seat next to Cook, whom I nod at. To my immense displeasure, Lian sits next to me.

There is silence as I am eyed with apprehension. Cook is the only one moving; he is passing me and Lian plates loaded to their limits with food and glasses sloshing with water. Then Lian speaks.

"So," he says in his loud, rather obnoxious voice, "we're gonna be catching the Avatar, are we?"

This doesn't do much but add to the crew's uneasiness. A few of them glance at each other, looking troubled as their foreheads wrinkle.

"What's the matter?" asks Lian.

"I hear he can destroy an entire army of our best ships, no trouble," says a man who I think is the helmsman. He is small and wiry-looking, with skin tan from staying high in the air all day, under the baking sun.

"And that he can run so fast he stays on top of water," says another man, a bigger, burlier one with a thin, graying goatee. His long hair, tied back in a ponytail, is the perfect mix of salt and pepper, old and young.

Lian laughs good-naturedly, and I can see some of the crew taking to him already, it's in their amber, Fire Nation eyes. "I think I could handle him," he boasts, showing off his muscles, which are not as sad as I'd expect from him. But his statement is what angers me.

"I doubt that," I said, and everyone quiets down at my voice, though it isn't much above a whisper. "If anyone's going to be _handling_ the Avatar, it'll be me. You'll just stay out of my way."

Silence answers me. I take small bites of my food, swigging it down with water, as everyone stares at me. I don't look up, willing my cheeks not to burn.

"Of course, No-Name here is better for the job than me," says Lian, and I detect his placating tone. "I hear the Fire Lord picked her out especially for this mission. I'm just here to help her out."

"I don't need your help," I say, lifting my head and glaring at him.

Another uncomfortable silence comes and goes. The crew is still looking at me as if I'm an alien, as if I have antlers sprouting from my head. I finish off my food.

Lian breaks the silence yet again. "Didn't catch your names," he says to the crew, keeping the subject off me.

"Cook," says Cook, holding out his hand to shake Lian's.

"Lian," says Lian. He doesn't question Cook's name being his profession; he just looks expectantly at the man sitting next to Cook, the one who claims the Avatar can run on water.

"Nam," he says, crossing his arms so that the veiny muscles bulge. A tattoo of a black anchor taints the skin on his forearm.

Around the table we go, saying our names. Cook, Nam, Sasuke, Lee, Shinjiro (the helmsman), and Lian himself. When they come to me, Lian says, "Don't bother. She doesn't have a name."

I look up, steely, daring them to contradict this. They don't.

"Uh . . . Miss?" says Sasuke tentatively. "I was wondering what are destination would be . . . I need to plan out our route—"

"Earth Kingdom," I say shortly, and I stand, my chair scraping as I push it back.

"But, where in the Earth Kingdom?"

"I'll know when we get there," I say. "Just take me to the shore. I'll travel by foot from there until I need to travel by water again."

"_We'll_ travel by foot," Lian corrects me quickly. "I'm going too, remember?"

I shrug my bony shoulders, trying to feint indifference. But I do care that he is coming; it poses a huge problem to my mission. The Avatar . . . how will I ever be able to explain myself with a Fire Nation man—and a talkative one at that—by my side constantly?

Finished with my dinner, I place my dishes in the sink and leave the room. The crew's eyes follow me uneasily, so I make sure I sashay out of the room, showing them a display of complete and utter confidence.

But in reality, my insides are writhing with worry.

**:-:-:-:-:**

I scream, utterly alone, where no one can hear me. I'm screaming and screaming for help that won't come; I don't exactly know why I'm screaming, but I can't stop.

Horrible images flash before my eyes, each worse than the next. I see Tsuong, leaning over me, eyes flashing with malice; then the Fire Lord's sinister silhouette, rising like a never-ending shadow to swallow me up. . . .

Less recent events come into play in my mind, each making less and less sense. Lacerated skin, my own skin, jagged and awful and pouring blood; the roars of slaughtered sky bison, who have been extinct for a long time because of this; monks in orange and yellow tunics that are rapidly blackening; children with young, promising faces that are melting off, leaving behind bone; and then a single, flickering, bright candlelight. . . .

I realize my eyes are open, and staring at the candle I left on my nighttable before climbing into bed that night. My soft, red sheets were tangled around me; I had obviously been thrashing in my sleep. Breathing shallow, I stare at the candle for a few moments, trying to gather my wits about me and wake up.

My eyes dart about the room quickly; it is too dark, the only candlelight being the flickering candle. Shadows bounce out everywhere, leaping at me, assaulting me, attacking me. . . .

I want nothing more than to get out of this dark, dismal room, so I throw back my sheets, grab my tiny stub of a candle, wrap a thin, silky robe around me, and speed out of the room and down the hall. My bare feet pad on the steel, and the sound is relaxing to me.

Outside, the stars are twinkling in the sky. I walk straight out to the edge of the deck, and place my candle down on the thick railing. I pull my robe around me tighter, even though the night is not chilled. Leaning against the railing, I look up at the sky, the natural, always-there sky, and take a breath, trying desperately to relax and find a sense of stability.

"Hey."

I jump at the voice, whirling around, immediately going into fighting stance. But it is only Lian, also in a robe, holding a candle and looking at me curiously.

"Jumpy, are you?"

"What do you want?" I ask, leaning back against the railing again, and crossing my arms across my stomach.

"Are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" I say defensively.

He peers at me. "Well, it's, what, three in the morning and you're standing outside, and you were shouting in your sleep a few minutes ago."

"I was?" I ask before I could stop myself.

"Yeah. You were screaming. I came out to make sure you were okay, but you weren't in your room."

"I appreciate your concern," I say icily, "but it is not needed."

Instead of leaving, like I hoped he would, Lian set his candle down beside mine and leaned against the railing next to me. I inch away.

"You know, you're very closed up," he says conversationally.

"Thank you for realizing the obvious," I say. "Would you mind leaving?"

"I'm supposed to hang around you at all times or something," he says, smirking. "I didn't think you'd be running away at night. Most people sleep, you know."

I am not like most. I am almost nocturnal; most of the night I am awake, or sleeping restlessly. But he doesn't need to know that, so I remain silent.

"Why won't you talk to me?" he asks.

"I barely know you," I answer.

"Well, you're not giving me a chance to now you," he says. "I'm trying to be friendly. I guess you just don't like me."

Instincts long gone come flooding back for the merest second; the ones where I didn't want to hurt any feelings, where I wanted everyone to feel included. I open my mouth to contradict this, but snap it shut again. No, no, no, I _don't_ like Lian. And I'm not going to. Friends, relationships of any kind, are dangerous.

"I don't get why they asked me to come with you, anyway," he says, looking up at the sky. "You don't seem like you need any help."

I look at him scrutinizingly. "They didn't tell you?" I ask slowly.

"Tell me what?"

This is information I can reveal. I sigh. "I'm a prisoner. I'm supposed to be locked up," I say, putting my hands on the railing and tightening them around its cool surface. "You're here to make sure I don't try to escape."

"Oh," he says awkwardly.

"Yeah. Heavy," I say sarcastically, letting go of the railing and allowing my arms to swing like pendulums at my sides.

"I'm sorry," he says, and I nod, though inside am I sickened by the pity in his eyes. "What did you do?"

"Nothing I would consider a crime," I say truthfully, but instantly I want to kick myself. I'm giving out clues. Clues to who I really am. I just shouldn't speak at all.

"Is that what you were screaming about?" he asks. "I mean, you were having nightmares?"

I nod, and then, searching for a way to end this conversation before it gets too personal for my taste.

"I think I'll go back to bed."

"Me too," says Lian, and he begins to accompany me back down to the hall where are rooms are located, to my displeasure. I don't speak to him as we walk, not until we reach the doors to our rooms.

"Look," I say, stopping him, his hand on his doorknob. I look at him quite sharply, just to make sure he understands. "This conversation will be revealed to no one. You will tell no one what I've told you, and if you do, I will be sure to make consequences. Just because I've told you some things about myself doesn't mean we're friends. I still strongly suggest you stay the away from me, if you know what's good for you."

There is shock on his face as I swing back into my rooms, closing the door in his face rudely. Leaning with my back against the door, I slowly slide down the floor and crumple.

The darkness of my room presses on me. My candle has burned out.

**I think it was less slow. Sorry, it may take some time for things to heat up. Please review with constructive criticism or any tips you may have for me.**

**(Don't have to read this) Okay, here's something I've been thinking about and I had to just say it **_**somewhere**_**. My brother says that pretty much every company everywhere is corrupt (which I don't really believe) so if every single company is corrupt, are any of them really corrupt? Because if it becomes a basic trait, like saying every person is corrupt, it kind of diminishes. If everyone is corrupt, then saying "That man is corrupt" is just like saying "That man has a nose" or something like that. I guess it kind of words for everything, not just corruption. I think I've confused myself. What do you think, if you read this far, because I personally don't think every single company in wherever could be corrupted. Now I've made a question/statement, question mark or period? Before I continue with stupid stuff, I'm going to bed.**


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